


Family Way

by Dee_Laundry



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-05
Updated: 2008-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To describe too much takes away from the story. Could we try without it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Family Way

**Author's Note:**

> Written during Season Three. For [](http://layne67.livejournal.com/profile)[**layne67**](http://layne67.livejournal.com/) , who prompted this. Thanks again to [](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisylily**](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

House had sent his fellows off to do more tests and was frowning at the whiteboard in concentration when he was startled by the sound of pelting feet. He turned just in time to be tackled by a small, slightly smelly creature who wrapped his arm around House’s thighs.

“Dad!” the boy cried, and hugged harder.

“What?” House asked, as he tried to disengage the munchkin, being careful not to lose his balance and squash the kid. “What in the world is this?” he demanded of Wilson, who was coming in the door with a toddler on his hip. The little girl smiled at House, her long curls swaying and bobbing.

Wilson sighed and pointed at the boy. “Tell him.”

“But –” the boy protested, before he was silenced by Wilson’s darkest glare. _Oh, no_ , House thought, _this is not good_.

“Tell him, Jacob,” Wilson repeated, and the boy capitulated.

He let go of House’s legs and scuffed his foot along the ground. His voice was grating, defiant. “Got suspended from school.”

“Again?” House blurted. The third time, and they weren’t even through with kindergarten yet. Worse track record than even he had had. He sank into a chair. Wilson swiftly dropped the girl into House’s lap – she giggled and grabbed at the lapels of his jacket – and turned to Jacob.

“For?” Wilson prompted.

Jacob stopped scuffing and started kicking the whiteboard. His scowl was deep, his anger palpable, but House could clearly see the embarrassment underneath. “Calling the teacher stupid,” Jacob confessed.

House kept his face impassive. Wilson was doing enough glaring for the both of them, and ooh, now the big guns were out; his hands were on his hips.

“Jacob, we can’t have this,” House said.

“But she is stupid!” Jacob protested, sinking to the ground. Michelle wiggled on House’s lap until he set her down. She immediately crawled to her brother, and he grabbed her into a hug.

“True,” replied House, pulling Wilson over next to him, “but you can’t be calling people on that all the time.” He raised a warning finger at Wilson, who had opened his mouth. “Do not mention pots and kettles.”

He tugged Wilson even closer and wrapped an arm around him before turning back to the kids. Jacob was engrossed in leading Michelle in a game of peek-a-boo and appeared to have already dismissed the conversation.

House looked back up at Wilson. “So, that explains Wonder Boy. Why’s Michelle here?”

“She’s got a fever and daycare won’t keep her. My mom is willing to watch her for the rest of the day, but you’re taking Jacob.” Grandma Wilson’s house was not well kid-proofed. It was fine for Michelle, with her limited mobility (and with a long afternoon nap coming up), but was like the china shop to Jacob’s bull.

House snorted in frustration. “I’ve got a patient. Why can’t you take Jacob this afternoon?”

“One, I consider this your fault and therefore your responsibility. Two, I have a budget meeting that will last most of the afternoon. And three, between the nausea and difficulty sleeping, I’m exhausted. I need a break.”

“A budget meeting gives a better break than going home with Jacob?”

“At least I can doze off during the budget meeting,” Wilson said, rolling his eyes.

House squeezed him gently. “Not much longer to endure this.”

“Four weeks,” Wilson agreed. “Maybe less.” He sighed.

House pulled Wilson into a full hug and settled his head against Wilson’s torso. “I thought it was supposed to be easier the third time around.”

“That’s apparently a myth.” Wilson stroked House’s hair gently and then let out another, bigger sigh. “I cannot wait for first trimester to be over, so I can stop feeling like hell all the time.”

“You look gorgeous.”

Wilson looked down at him and smirked. “I’m definitely popping earlier. Had to break out the pregnancy pants already.”

“I was there; I heard the groans.” House smiled. “You’re gorgeous, and you know it. Besides, the bigger you get, the more your libido comes back, and I personally can’t wait for that.”

He pulled Wilson down into a lingering kiss, ignoring their son’s cries of “Ooh, kissing, gross!” Wilson’s belly was warm under his hand, and he imagined he could feel the vibrant life growing within.

 _ **House didn’t bother turning on the light when he awoke**_ ; he reached out for the nightstand and after a few fumbles, grabbed his phone. He hit speed dial, and waited with his eyes closed as the phone rang.

“Yes, what?”

“Time to pee on a stick,” he replied.

“Uhhhh. House?” Cuddy asked drowsily.

“Who else tells you to pee on a stick? Wait, are you in a kinky club? I knew it! Tell me all about it.”

Cuddy made an indistinct noise of frustration. “You dreamed I was pregnant, again.”

“Yes. Third time’s the charm.”

“Why can this never wait until the morning?” Cuddy asked. House could hear rustling sounds and knew she was getting out of bed.

He snorted. “Because it can’t. Get moving.”

There was a pause, and then some light banging and shuffling. Cuddy was no doubt looking under the sink for the test. House felt a satisfied warmth creeping in on him.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Cuddy asked.

House was surprised. She’d never probed much about the content of his dreams. “Don’t know. Only eight weeks along in the dream. The first one was a boy, though, and the second one was a girl.”

“The first and second one?” Cuddy’s voice was getting stronger; she was fully awake by now. “You – you dreamed about the babies I lost in miscarriage?”

“Yes,” House replied softly. He wasn’t often struck with the need to be gentle, but something about Cuddy’s tone was provoking just that impulse. “The older one was a boy. He was born with only one arm and the world’s worst attitude. Angry almost all the time, leading to horrible discipline problems.”

Cuddy gasped softly. “And the girl?”

“Down syndrome. Sweet and loving – good influence on her brother – but not talking and not yet walking at age two.”

Cuddy was silent for a moment. House imagined tears in her eyes, but her voice was clear when next she spoke. “You were right. It’s positive; I’m pregnant.”

“Third time’s the charm,” House said, again, and since when did he spout platitudes?

Cuddy laughed. “I hope. We’ll see. Good night, House.”

“Good night.”

* * *

  


They passed in the halls, and she never gave him a second glance. They fought over clinic hours, exactly as before. The phone call might have been a dream (they’d certainly never discussed the prior two) except Cuddy’s breasts really did get fuller over the next few weeks.

He caught Wilson staring at Cuddy’s cleavage and ribbed him endlessly about it. “There’s just something about her lately,” Wilson replied, and House very deliberately began steering Wilson toward a pretty, sweet cashier in the gift shop. The thought of Cuddy as Mrs. Wilson number four was too horrific to contemplate. As was Wilson with large chunks of his anatomy ripped out, another possible outcome of a Cuddy-Wilson liaison.

* * *

  


The page had said, “OB 911,” and House moved as fast as his leg would allow. A sad-faced nurse pointed him toward a certain door; heart pounding almost out of his chest, he flung it open. He saw legs up, in the stirrups, and Sheffield looked at him and gently shook her head. “Oh,” was all that came out in that first second, as his lungs forgot how to work.

He took the three strides toward the exam table and suddenly the words tumbled out. “No. Don’t tell me this was a miscarriage. No. How could this happen? It’s ten weeks; we heard the heartbeat. That early sonogram, everything was fine.”

He turned toward Wilson. “You were fine this morning, right? You would’ve told me if you’d felt anything, right?”

Wilson nodded as the tears splashed onto his cheeks. House leaned down and wrapped his arms around him, pressing Wilson close to his chest.

“It just happened,” Wilson said. He shuddered in House’s arms. “A perfect baby, but sometimes these things happen.” He started sobbing now, as if his heart was broken. All House could do was pull him closer, kiss his hair, cling to him until House’s own heart healed.

 _ **House was surprised to feel moisture on his cheeks.**_ As he grabbed for the phone, he rubbed his face against the pillow to dry it. Just a dream, and what should he care?

“House!” Cuddy snapped, when she picked up.

“You’re up,” he replied, groggier than she sounded.

Cuddy sighed. “I was just peeing for the fifteenth time tonight, so you’re lucky. What do you want?”

“Your baby’s going to make it.”

“What?” Rustling – Cuddy was climbing into her bed.

“Your baby is going to survive to term. And be born healthy.”

“Thank you for that vote of confidence,” Cuddy said with clear confusion. “But why are – Oh. Did you have another dream?”

House pressed his face further into the pillow. This was good news, if the patterns of his dreams held, and there was absolutely no reason for him to be feeling the deep sense of loss that he did.

“I did. Dream baby didn’t make it. Nothing wrong with the fetus at all, just an unexplained miscarriage at ten weeks.”

Cuddy gasped, her breath catching. After a moment, she asked shakily, “Wouldn’t that mean a miscarriage for me?”

House ground his teeth. No reason for this anger, no reason for this hole, this empty pit. “Jacob and Michelle – dream kids one and two survived in the dream, but not in real life. Dream baby three died. Gotta mean real life fetus three makes it.”

“It’s just a dream.”

Feeling strange, unwelcome tears threatening, House was frantic to get off the phone. “Go to sleep, Cuddy. See you tomorrow.” He threw the phone to the side and began naming all the bones in the human body until his emotions settled down. He was down to the metatarsals when he fell asleep.

* * *

  


House was relieved when Cuddy’s baby was born happy, healthy, and right on time. It was when he finally quit dreaming of Wilson weeping every night.


	2. Privacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The stalking thing is kind of flattering. But it really needs to stop outside of my uterus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for sensitive subject matter regarding family planning issues. Thank you to Chippers87 and Travlncarrie for assistance with Cuddy characterization and to the ever-lovely Daisylily for beta.

He was sitting on the floor in the laundry room, helping Michelle practice her walking. She’d always liked the sound of the dryer, even as an infant. The steady hum and rhythmic thumps and crackles soothed her, relaxed her, and they’d finally realized it helped her focus and learn too.

Thus the midget-sized treadmill and parallel bars had been re-located to the laundry room, along with ergonomically correct, super space polymer, gently heated floor mats because God forbid Michelle’s tootsies ever got cold for even a second.

Michelle looked at him then, her tongue stuck halfway out and her grin wide enough to span oceans, and House thought maybe they should cover the whole house with the mats.

“A minute more,” he said, and she kept walking. She was leaning into his hands a little less than yesterday, which had been a little less than the day before. “Keep this up, and by next month, you’re going to be faster than I am.”

“Da,” she burbled in response, moving merrily until practice time was over.

House swung her down from the treadmill, swooped her toward the floor and back up again, enjoying every last giggle. He didn’t catch sight of Wilson lounging in the doorway until he’d set Michelle on her feet again and helped her wrap her hands on the parallel bar.

“Why are you grinning like that?” he asked Wilson.

“What?” Wilson’s eyebrows rose and his lips pouted in a highly unbelievable expression of innocence. “Can’t a man just be happy to see his daughter growing and blossoming?”

House put out a hand to steady Michelle as she suddenly wobbled. “That’s a different grin. This one is the one you wear when –” _Oh_. His voice stopped; his brain stopped; with a squawk, Michelle pulled away from his suddenly tightening hand; he looked up at Wilson’s broad smile, the happy nod, the hand over his abdomen...

“Yes,” Wilson said. “I’m pregnant.”

House couldn’t think. This made no sense. “How? We weren’t even trying.”

“I –” Wilson started, head shaking, mouth open in amazement, shoulders shrugging. “I don’t know. I don’t know how it happened; it just did.” He laughed, joy echoing in every breath. “After picking Jacob up from his sleepover with Paul, I was overcome by this feeling that I should test for it. We got home, I tested and... strong positive. Unmistakable.”

House looked at his hands. He couldn’t wrap his head around this.

“Aren’t you happy?” Wilson asked. “We’d wanted a third so badly, and then after we lost –”

“No,” House interjected. He didn’t want to think about the miscarriage, _God_ no. “No. This is good. Out of nowhere, but good.”

Twinkle back in his eye, Wilson crossed the room quickly and sank to the floor next to House. “After everything, another baby,” he said as he tilted his head onto House’s shoulder. “It’s like we’re in a state of grace.”

“Leave God out of this,” House said, wrapping Wilson into his arms. “Your Hebrew name’s not Mary, and I know for a fact you’re not a virgin, so God’s not the one who knocked you up, _quod erat demonstrandum_.”

Wilson laughed; Michelle giggled; House held Wilson tighter and let himself begin to daydream about their new child still to be.

 ** _House blinked into the darkness_** , thought _Wilson threw out his clothes; he’ll need new ones_ , and closed his eyes again.

* * *

  


Typical Friday; Clinic was bustling with the sniffling and seeping. House ignored Brenda’s glare and slammed into Cuddy’s side as she perused some chart-looking thing next to a file cabinet he could’ve sworn wasn’t there the day before.

“Go away, House,” Cuddy said without looking up.

“I take it your fourth date with Mr. Grace went well.”

“And why do you ‘take it’?” A page in the folder flipped up and then down again. “Did I apply my eye shadow with one one-millionth of a newton more force than typical?”

“Isabella didn’t mind you having a boy-girl sleepover?”

The folder flapped shut; Cuddy flapped off to her office; House followed behind, decidedly _not_ flapping.

“Isabella,” Cuddy said as she closed the door, “wakes up at seven-thirty. Paul was gone by seven.” Her stride seemed fiercely determined as she crossed to her desk and settled in her chair.

House regarded her from the guest chair. The paper bag he’d been holding was stuffed between his right leg and the chair arm. “No charming family breakfast? Grace making multi-grain toast and egg-white omelets with chives while you beatifically give Isabella a go at the girls?”

“No. I’m keeping things separate for Isabella’s sake. _When_ it is appropriate, and not a moment before, I’ll introduce the two of them. God knows, I’ve damaged her enough by letting her meet you.”

 _Yeah, yeah_. “You don’t think he’ll make a good father?”

“We’re not to that point yet.” Cuddy’s eyes narrowed. “What is with the third degree?”

House tossed the paper bag at her and watched her catch it deftly. “You’re pregnant.”

“No.” Cuddy opened the bag and pulled out the pack of Plan B before giving House an exasperated glare. “Last night was the first time I’ve had intercourse in far, far longer than I’d like to admit, and no.”

Returning the glare and leaning forward, House said, “OK, so you’re _almost_ pregnant. If you don’t want a second kid, take the pills.”

“No.” Cuddy tucked the packet back into the bag and folded the top over neatly. “I’ll donate this to the Clinic. Thank you for your contribution.”

“Cuddy –”

“Look.” Cuddy’s palm thumped on the desk, Administrator-style, and House knew he wasn’t going to convince her. “The stalking thing is kind of flattering,” she continued. “It’s like having a weird, vaguely psychotic big brother looking out for me. It’s nice. But it really needs to stop outside of my uterus.”

He was channeling Wilson, patron saint of lost causes, but one more effort: “You’re pregnant. Or about to be.”

“House.” Her tone softened. “Condom plus jelly plus having huge difficulties conceiving in the first place means I’m not pregnant. There’s just no way.”

“What’s the harm in taking the pills?”

Cuddy shook her head and opened up the file on her desk. “I’d rather save them for someone who actually needs them. Bye-bye.”

House made a strategic retreat and considered a plan B for getting the Plan B into Cuddy. But a teenager came in seizing and bleeding from the eyeballs, and a young boy was admitted with a virulent rash across more than half his body, and by the time House had a brain cell to spare for tricking Cuddy into doing the sensible thing, seventy-two hours had passed.

* * *

  


The sunshine that tapped House’s face was pleasantly gentle as they walked out of their favorite cafe. House was half-listening to Wilson babble about the new additions to the men’s line at Pea in the Pod and half-basking in the warmth of both the weather and the palm pressed against his. He brought their joined hands to his lips and kissed the tips of Wilson’s fingers, getting a smile of pure pleasure in return.

“But the breathability of cotton...” House prompted.

“Nah,” Wilson said. “I’m boring you. Let’s talk about something else.” He tugged their hands down into a smooth pendulum arc, tugged House along into an easy pace along the sidewalk. “How about sports? Best hockey player of all time.”

 _Jesus_. The properties of various fabrics were more interesting than _that_. “Lame.”

“What? You like to debate.”

“Yes, I like to debate.” This was an important point; House waited to catch Wilson’s eye before continuing. “Which is why that subject’s lame. There is no debate. There can be no debate. The best hockey player of all time is clearly –”

“Bobby Orr.”

“Wayne Gretzky!” House yelled, his left hand – still wrapped around Wilson’s right – flying into the air in pure exasperation. “How did I ever get duped into marrying such a dumbass?”

“I think there was a lot of very good sex involved,” Wilson replied with an amused smirk.

Stepping carefully over a crack in the sidewalk, House snorted. “OK sex.”

“Very good,” Wilson repeated emphatically, with a squeeze of House’s hand. The sun was skimming the top of Wilson’s hair, making it glow, and his skin was smooth, and his eyes were a warm sable, and House wanted to stretch him out over the nearest horizontal surface and ravish him right there. Leave him sweaty and radiant and breathless.

Wilson smiled like he could read House’s mind, and then turned away to look in a storefront window. “Come on. We’ve got another hour before we pick up the kids, and there’s a shop up here that – Oh.”

Wilson stopped, free hand pushing into his side. “Oh,” he repeated, and House untangled their fingers to rub a hand along Wilson’s belly.

“OK?”

Eyes unfocused, Wilson seemed to be looking inward. “Could just be something from lunch... Ow.” Both hands pressed into his sides, Wilson curled slightly, and House wasn’t going to wait one second longer.

“Hospital. Now. Can you make it to the car, or am I calling an ambulance?”

“No,” Wilson insisted. “It’s probably nothing. There’s an urgent care clinic a block or so over; we can go there.”

House opened his mouth to protest – who knew what kind of hacks worked _full time_ at a clinic – but Wilson cut him off. “Not Princeton; not there. Let’s go.”

Three-and-a-half anxiety-filled minutes later, they were walking in the door; four-and-a-quarter anxiety-filled and loud minutes after that, an ultrasound wand was gliding across Wilson’s abdomen.

“It’s probably nothing,” Wilson said again, fingers clutching at House’s shirt.

“No, it’s something,” said the bristle-haired attending – who was going to die a horrible death at House’s hands – as she peered at the monitor. “You’re definitely in the early stages of miscarriage.”

“No,” Wilson gritted out even as his eyes began to glisten. House tucked his chair closer to the exam table, slipping an arm around Wilson’s shoulders.

The doctor’s voice rang out with finality, “Yeah, you are.” She looked away from the monitor and at them finally, and seemed taken aback to see their distress. “Um... but that’s OK.”

“What?” House managed to growl even in the midst of calculating exactly how many inches of bowel he could extract while keeping her heart beating.

She looked back and forth between him and Wilson, confused and rabbity-looking. “You two are doctors, right? We’ve got a simple, safe surgical procedure that’ll stop it. Outpatient; you can leave in about an hour; only mild side effects and very, _very_ low risk of complications.”

“And it’s effective?” Wilson asked, voice suffused with hope.

“Ninety-eight percent, and we can repeat if needed.” Dr. Hedgehog smiled; Wilson smiled; House couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. “After a local anesthetic, I start by using this series of narrow instruments to –”

 ** _House jerked awake so violently_** that he thought for a brief second he would fall out of his recliner. As he was recovering his wits, Foreman leaned into his office from the conference room. “You all right?”

House angrily waved that inquiry off. “What time is it?”

Foreman brought his gold Rolex-looking watch up to eye level. “Eleven thirty. Why?”

“I’m going to lunch.” House struggled to get out of the chair; Foreman didn’t offer to help. He’d learned _something_ at least, after all this time. “I’ll be gone the rest of the day.”

“And you want me to cover with Cuddy,” Foreman said contemptuously.

“Nope,” House replied, halfway out the door already. “No need.”

He thought about catching up with her in her office, but Wilson had already clearly – albeit dorkily – demonstrated the effectiveness of the cut-and-literally-run method of House evasion in the lobby. Not worth the risk this time.

Lurking in her car it was, then.

Ten minutes later, Cuddy had actually dropped into the driver’s seat, with her door halfway closed, before she noticed him and startled dramatically.

“I thought women were supposed to be more aware of their surroundings,” House noted as Cuddy clutched at her chest and glared. “That safety seminar instructor you hired to bore us all to death is going to be very disappointed in you.”

“What the hell are you doing in my car?”

“Waiting for you.” _Duh_ , he thought but tried not to let the sentiment show on his face. “Close the door and let’s go; you don’t want to be late.”

Her sensible (for once) Kate Spade pumps tapped the floor mat in a rhythm of irritation. “I have lunch plans, House. Ones that do _not_ involve you. Get out.”

“Yeah, I know; you added it to your schedule yesterday. Lunch with Judith Fuches in Lawrenceville.” House played idly with the window switch, but didn’t let Cuddy escape his gaze.

“She’s an old friend.”

“And a doctor.”

“Most of them are.”

“An OB. And you’re taking the rest of the afternoon off.”

They played tug-of-war with their stares for a few moments, but House knew she knew he knew. _Knew, new, noo, doobie doobie doo._

He saw, rather than heard, a tiny sigh of surrender, and then nodded toward the driver’s side door. “Let’s go. I’m sure Fuches has a busy schedule.”

The Mercedes purred as Cuddy slammed the shifter into drive and pulled out of her parking space. They were out of the lot and four miles down the road before she spoke again, her voice heavy with bitterness.

“So you thought you’d come along to say I told you so?”

“I thought,” House said, “you’d need someone to drive you home.”

“I could drive myself after taking mifepristone.”

“Yes,” House said. “But I’m betting you want the immediate finality of the surgical option.”

Cuddy’s eyes stayed firmly on the road. “You think I’m cold.”

“I think you’re decisive.”

She sighed and her shoulders dropped. “With everything the way it is –”

“Drive. We’ll talk when we get there.”

“You’re going to delay me in the office? See if I change my mind?”

House snorted. “I don’t care how good a friend Fuches is; OBs are _never_ on time for anything but emergencies. We’ll be able to talk.” He reclined his expensively comfortable seat and closed his eyes; Cuddy kept driving.

At the obstetrician’s office, they were escorted to a private waiting area, but not before House had to endure far more “you’re the father; how sweet” smiles than he ever wanted to see during waking hours. _Lucky I like you_ , he thought, but then he caught a glimpse of apprehension in Cuddy’s expression and put that thought aside.

The chairs were well-padded but way too short. “Designed for women,” Cuddy pointed out as House fidgeted, trying to get situated in the least pain-inducing way.

“Who are never ever tall,” he replied.

“Fewer than one percent of whom are over six feet. So shut it and deal.”

He was tempted to demand she cite her sources, but then he finally found a less-than-excruciating position and decided to just sit.

“You don’t want me to do this,” Cuddy said suddenly.

 _Leave it to Cuddy to miss the point._ “I –”

“It’s a huge decision. Life-changing.” She wasn’t looking at the tasteful mother-child art on the walls, or the medical model of the female reproductive system on the side table, or the cutesy announcements arranged artistically on the fabric-covered tack board. She was focused on the paisley rug as if she could divine the future in the whorls of color.

“A lot of factors in this,” she continued, “and I thought through every one of them. But in the end it came down to one thing: what’s best for the child that I already have, not the one that could be.” She nodded, still not looking at him, still determined in tone, still with vulnerability in her expression that she was trying to hide. “I’m doing well with Isabella, balancing her and work, but I’m running at top capacity almost every second. Two kids under the age of two? No way could I keep it up. Something would have to give, and you know, House, you _know_ that when something gives everything falls.”

He knew. He’d ended up on his ass enough times to know for sure. He wanted to touch her now, to hold her, but he wasn’t her lover or her father. They didn’t _do_ that, so he settled for silence.

“I can’t do it to Isabella,” she concluded. “Can’t. Won’t.”

Tears were going to fall any second, out of somebody’s eyes, and it couldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen. He had to stop it.

“I’m a good father.”

Cuddy looked up, and the overlay of surprise and curiosity was good to see. “What?”

“In those dreams I have, I’m a good father. To Jacob and Michelle.” Curiosity was rising in Cuddy’s eyes, anxiety falling. _Keep talking_ , he encouraged himself. “You let me cut back my hours at work to two days. I’m still on call for phone consults for the really cool cases, but otherwise, I’m with the kids.”

She nodded; House took a breath that wasn’t anywhere near as shaky as he would’ve anticipated it to be. “I work with Michelle, take her to appointments, PT, OT, speech and language. I do therapy at home, and she’s making huge strides. Literally and figuratively.” He smiled, and caught a smile from Cuddy too.

“And Jacob. I found a decent child psychologist for him, and we do ‘homework’ exercises on control together. He hasn’t had any major discipline problems at school in six months, and he has three close friends. Good friends that he has a good time with.

“I’m even cooking. Kids’ meals only, though. The sophisticated cuisine I leave to –” _No, not sidetracking the conversation by going there. Not saying ‘Wilson,’ no, no, no._ “– my wife.”

Cuddy nudged his shoulder. “Your wife? I thought I was the one in those pregnancy dreams.”

Managing somehow not to laugh, House shook his head. “No. The dreams symbolize your situation, but the person in them is somebody else.”

“Ah.”

“And we’d be great parents for a third kid.”

Cuddy’s head whipped his direction so quickly that her hair seemed to float. “You said Jacob and Michelle came from my miscarriages. So... you _want_ me to have this abortion, so that you and your dream wife can have another dream child?”

Now it was his turn to drop his gaze to the floor. “I don’t have any standing in your decision at all. I just wanted to...” House realized he couldn’t tell her the truth, which was “make you feel a little better.” He wasn’t a comforting guy, and even if he wanted to be, Cuddy wouldn’t believe it. So he finished his sentence, after only the briefest pause, with, “Brag.”

“Ah,” Cuddy said again, with a nod and a twist to her lips, and he realized she’d heard his meaning, anyway. Good.

A few more minutes passed, with Cuddy’s hand draped over his. He hoped her palm was warm from his radiant heat.

The door on their right opened, and a hefty woman with fading red curls entered. “Lisa, it’s good to see you again.”

“Judith.” Cuddy rose gracefully, crossed the room, and leaned into Fuches for a social hug. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“I’m happy to do it.” She gave House the once over. “Is this –”

“A friend,” Cuddy said quickly. “He’s going to wait here to drive me home.”

Fuches smiled and patted Cuddy’s arm. “Good. Let’s go right here across the hall.”

House called after Cuddy before she got even one step farther. “Hey.” When she turned back, he twitched his lips at her and said, “We’ll name it Lisa if it’s a girl.”

“Patrick if it’s a boy,” she replied.

House nodded.

The honey-colored oak door closed behind her, and House settled back to wait.


End file.
